


I'll Show You How I Swing

by phanatics



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: High School Musical References, Homoerotic Baseball, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Lance Angsts in Spanish, M/M, This is DUMB, allura is gabriella and shiro is troy, im still laughing at "homoerotic baseball", is that the officialTM hsm tag, keith is chad, lance is ryan, not a tag either altho it should be, who am i kidding thats not a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 14:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10439475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phanatics/pseuds/phanatics
Summary: Keith doesn't dance. Lance knows he can.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i literally just went and klance-ified the iconicTM hsm2 'i dont dance' scene dont look at me
> 
> my entire knowledge of baseball comes exclusively from wii sports im sorry

The New Mexico sun is relentlessly hot at this time of day and Keith can feel sweat accumulating at the nape of his neck. He’s already tied his dark hair into a small ponytail, looping it through the hole at the back of his baseball cap, but it still feels like there’s weight there. At the least the low visor stops the sun from getting in his eyes, unlike stupid ass Lance, standing on the opposite side of the baseball pitch and shielding the sun from his eyes with his hand, cap turned backwards on his head.

Admittedly Keith had been a little caught off guard when, earlier that afternoon, Allura and Nyma pulled up in a golf cart to the traditional Galra Springs’ staff baseball game with a grinning Lance in tow, long legs bent awkwardly as he sat crammed in the back seat. Admittedly Keith had felt a tiny tug of conflict in his chest as Lance leapt through the open gate of the pitch and into the dusty red baseball diamond, high-fiving Hunk as he passed and shooting finger guns towards a cluster of girls settled in the stands.

Admittedly he was a little turned on by the way Lance’s shirt didn’t quite fit, white material stretched taut against dark muscles.

(Grudgingly. Reluctantly. Hypothetically. Keith would probably have to conjure up a dictionary in order to convey how much he _didn’t_ anticipate Lance’s company on that too-hot July afternoon.)

Keith wishes that Shiro was here. He’s slightly peeved that the captain of the basketball team _and_ the guy who’d secured them all jobs at the Galra Springs Country Club for the summer isn’t going to be showing up to the staff baseball game and that Keith _did_ have to come, but he’s even more displeased that his only proper friend has left him to fend for himself, especially in the presence of one Lance McClain. Keith likes to use Shiro as a buffer between the two of them.

Besides, before this summer had begun, Lance had merely been a tiny, barely-there crush. A guy he didn’t share lessons with, only saw sometimes after basketball practice when he’d wait outside the changing rooms for Hunk, a passing face in a corridor.

And now a day hasn’t passed where the two haven’t had to interact. Whether it’s working together on the golf course, sharing the kitchen, or even visiting the pool at the same time, Keith has had no escape from Lance’s obnoxious laugh or his obnoxious wide blue eyes or his obnoxiously long legs.

Keith isn’t dumb. He knows it’s a lot more than a passing crush now. It’s now settled somewhere below his heart, between his ribs, tugging insistently whenever Lance comes near.

Keith hates it.

At least Shiro had looked a little apologetic when he said he couldn’t make it today.

He’s leaning back on the old chainmail fence, eyes in shadow and eyebrows furrowed, arms crossed and one leg propped up behind him. He squints through the summer haze across the wide baseball pitch where Lance is now chatting with Nyma and Allura through the metal fence, curling his fingers in the gaps above his head and making the back of his shirt ride up. Keith allows himself to stare for approximately two seconds while Lance remains oblivious before he forces his gaze away.

Lance glows brighter than the sun. Keith retreats a little further into the shadows.

Keith glances past Lance, towards the rickety stands to the right of the baseball pitch, seeking out Pidge. She’d managed to worm her way out of participating with a deadpan “sorry, I’m allergic to sports” and, quite frankly, Keith is bitter.

He sees her crouched on the top row of seats in the shade of the flimsy awning, hunched over her knees like a gremlin, phone held tight in her hands. As if she can feel Keith’s gaze boring into her, her eyes lift up to meet his, unwavering and unimpressed. He juts out his chin testily and his eyes flicker frantically between her and Lance, raising an eyebrow in an _are you kidding me?_ gesture.

Pidge gives him a blank stare for all of three seconds and purses her lips before rolling her eyes and returning to her phone again. Keith’s going to pretend that she was agreeing with him, echoing his gesture of _ugh, Lance, right?_ instead of actually rolling her eyes _at_ him, her default gesture of _I’m so done with your gay shit_ _right now._

He’ll take what he can get.

A shrill whistle catches his attention. He directs his gaze back to the diamond, where everyone wearing a generic, staff-provided baseball uniform is scrambling to congregate in the middle of the pitch and everyone else is making a hasty escape to the stands.

Keith heaves a sigh and pushes off the fence, rolling his neck as he walks to stretch it out. His knuckles crack as he wrings his hands. The sun pulses down on his bare arms.

As he crosses the pitch his gaze is automatically drawn to Lance, who’s doing some weird moonwalk thing towards the group of excited teammates before breaking out into a series of small complex dance moves. Lance twirls on the spot, grinning, and Hunk claps enthusiastically. Lance gives an exaggerated bow and one of the other guys on the basketball team claps him on the back and the group bursts into raucous laughter. Lance scoops up one of the beat up baseball bats from the pile of equipment near his feet and waves it like a baton, conducting the noise, eyes sparkling with obvious mirth even from a distance.

Keith forgot to mention Lance’s obnoxious charming personality. He _really_ hates that.

He glances towards the stands as he walks by and makes eye contact with Allura; she grins at him and sticks her tongue out, waggling her fingers in a wave. Keith reminds himself that since Allura is now Shiro’s girlfriend she’s obligated to be nice to him but the gesture still loosens the knot of apprehension in his stomach – he waves back slowly, tentatively before turning back to the team and crossing the last amount of distance to merge with the large group, slipping into the rowdy crowd with little fanfare and awkwardly coming to a halt, foot tapping.

When Keith approaches, Lance switches to doing the robot, repeatedly hitting Hunk with his swinging arm as his friend laughs, clutching his stomach with one hand and fending off Lance’s arm with the other. Lance is also laughing, snorting every few seconds and Keith slowly raises his eyes to the sky, searching the expanse of brilliant blue for a reason as to why he’s completely head over heels for this boy.

Lance finally spots Keith standing there and his expression turns downright devious.

“Hey, Mullet!” he hollers. “You got some moves?” He wiggles his eyebrows at Keith, shit-eating grin firmly in place. Some of the members of the basketball team around him start sniggering again.

“I don’t dance,” Keith bites out resolutely, shooting a scowl his way. Lance’s smile only gets broader as the two regard each other for a few heartbeats, caught in an impromptu staring contest. Keith tries not to flush.

The back of his neck blooms with heat anyway.

“Alright, Kogane, what’s the game plan?”

Keith startles as one of his teammates speaks up before he remembers belatedly that with Shiro gone, the responsibility to organise everyone now falls on him, vice-captain of the team.

Well, shit.

He doesn’t really know what he’s doing as he awkwardly assigns people into teams and positions, stiff and curt. He can’t command the team in the same charismatic way that Shiro can but they still listen to him, dutifully separating, albeit slowly.

Keith makes sure to put Lance on the other team. He can’t wait to kick his ass.

As the rest of the players begin to arrange themselves into their respective positions, Lance drifts towards Keith, baseball bat dangling casually from his left hand and provocative smirk sliding onto his face as he leers at Keith. The intimidating effect is somewhat dampened as Lance squints against the bright sunlight, looking more confused than menacing and Keith kind of wants to die as Lance scrunches up his nose in an exact imitation of a disgruntled kitten.

“Hey, Mullet.” Lance stops in front of Keith, face composed again. “I just thought I’d tell you before we begin not to come crying to me when you lose.”

Keith levels Lance with a flat look. “Do you even know how to _play_ baseball? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you move faster than a brisk walk.”

Lance scoffs and puts his free hand to his chest, seemingly affronted. “Just ‘cause I’m not a _lunkhead basketball man-”_ Keith fights back a snort “-doesn’t mean I’m _unathletic_. Dancing is as much of a sport as basketball – theatre can be really taxing. I can assure you that I’m _ripped_.”

Keith wants to point out that _unathletic_ definitely isn’t a word, and that maybe Lance should take an English class or two, but Lance is leaning closer to him, almost conspiratorially.

“You wanna know how I swing?” Lance practically purrs, edging into Keith’s personal space. Keith hates that he’s slouching to accommodate for Keith’s shorter height as their eyes meet, now levelled. Lance has the baseball bat slung across his shoulders, forearms looping over and dangling either side of his head on the scratched metal surface. Their noses are only inches apart and Keith takes the tiniest step backwards; Lance shifts forwards with him. Keith is too stubborn to step back again.

Keith fights back the voice screaming in his head about how ridiculously _sexual_ Lance just sounded. Instead his dark eyes flash in the shade of his baseball cap and he mirrors Lance with a smirk of his own, praying to every deity he knows that he doesn’t stutter when he opens his mouth.

“Bring it.”

They hold each other’s gazes, silent, unwavering. Challenging.

Finally Lance breaks away, sauntering backwards a few steps and swinging the bat around, levelling the end of it directly in front of Keith’s nose. “I’ll show you that it’s one and the same.” He waves his free hand flippantly, moving the baseball bat away and gesticulating wildly with it as he starts talking. “Baseball, dancing – it’s the same game.”

Lance turns around on the spot, looking over his shoulder to smirk at Keith. “It’s easy. Step up to the plate,” he indicates with a flourish, “and start swinging.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “I’m just here to play ball.” Lance opens his mouth to shoot a reply back but he cuts him off with a firm “and that’s _all_ I wanna do. It’s not a _dance_ you can show me.”

Lance strolls a little further away, handing the baseball bat to the first batter as he walks past, humming a tune under his breath. Keith thinks Lance has finally forgotten about him, gone off to find someone less stubborn to play with, but the breath of relief can’t even leave his lips before Lance is whirling back and around and fixing Keith with a pointed look.

“You’ll never know.” Lance sighs dramatically. “You’ll never _try_.”

Keith scowls and his tone becomes snappish. “Just get in position, Lance.”

“Ooh, it bites.”

“We’re here to play ball, not dance hall.”

Even with the distance, he can see as Lance furrows his eyebrows and adopts a surly expression, crossing his arms and dropping the pitch of his voice. “I’m Keith and I don’t dance.”

Keith can feel a vein twitch in his forehead. Lance McClain, seventeen years old and going on five, was going to be the death of him. “I don’t sound like that.”

Lance pouts exaggeratedly, eyebrows still knitted together tightly. “I’m a baby who doesn’t want to try new things.”

“Still don’t sound like that.”

“Lance has the _greatest_ ass on this entire pitch-”

“Jesus _Christ,_ ” Keith huffs and pointedly turns on his heel, flipping Lance off behind his back as he gets in position. He can hear cackling behind him.

Someone blows a whistle, and the first inning begins.

Keith throws himself into the game, ignoring the way Lance continuously tries to capture his attention by wiggling his eyebrows in his direction or tries to distract him with another lame dance move. 

He’d be damned if he let Lance, the prancing theatre kid, beat the vice-captain of the basketball team.

Lance is doing some weird leg thing at opposite edge of the diamond when Keith glances over at him for the first time since the start of the game, and he schools his expression into one that clearly conveys his _done-with-your-dumb-shit_ attitude as their gazes meet. The Latino waves exaggeratedly at him. Lance points at himself, points at Keith, and does another weird leg thing that Keith can’t wrap his head around; Keith rolls his eyes as Lance looks at him expectantly. Cheers rise up around them as someone strikes out but Keith doesn’t know who it is, attention wholly pinpointed on Lance.

“I don’t dance!” he yells above the noise.

“I know you can!” Lance shouts right back as the cheers subside and someone else steps up to the base, a sing-song undertone to his words.

Keith bites back a sigh and chews on his lower lip to stop a silly, excited smirk from blooming across his face.

It’s going to be a long game.

 

**********

 

Two hours later he’s drenched in sweat, rivulets running down his face and making his bangs stick to his forehead. They’re at the end of the last inning and as long as Keith doesn’t strike out here, his team will win. The sun has sunk lower in the sky, shadows running like dark streams across the pitch as figures become distorted and stretched.

When the staff had been planning the game, they’d decided to rotate everyone’s positions every time a home run was scored (to mix things up or make things fun or some other bullshit that Keith didn’t really understand but nodded along with anyway). Keith has lost track of how many positions he’s moved but now Lance is pitching and Keith is batting and Keith’s vision all but tunnels in on him, letting the other players around him dissolve from his peripheral vision. Lance is casually throwing the ball up and catching it, staring straight at Keith with his hip cocked. He abandoned his baseball cap midway through the game and his hair has curled in the heat, half the strands stuck to his head by sweat and the other half sticking up in tufts where he’s run his fingers through it.

Backlit by the setting sun, edges of his body illuminated in gold, Keith thinks he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

They regard each other, Keith’s face serious and Lance with the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

He licks a bead of sweat off his top lip as it threatens to drip into his mouth and he wonders if he just caught Lance’s gaze following the movement of his tongue.

He dismisses it and blames it on the flare of the dying light in his eyes.

“I’ll show you how I swing, McClain,” he growls to himself, bending his knees and gripping the bat even tighter. He’s aware that his ass is probably sticking out ridiculously but all that Keith cares about right now is wiping that stupid smug smile off Lance’s face.

Lance’s smirk drops and surprise flickers across his face for the briefest of moments before he furrows his eyebrows and his expression becomes serious again. He can see Lance’s chest moving with each ragged inhale.

Lance pitches the ball so quickly that Keith doesn’t see it leave his hand. It speeds towards him and Keith waits, waits, and throws his entire body into swinging the bat. The ball hits the metal with a resounding clang that leaves the bat vibrating and his arms buzzing and he doesn’t wait to watch the ball arc through the air before he’s running, skidding over first base in seconds and pumping his legs past second, third; in his peripheral vision he sees Lance being thrown the ball and spinning to hurtle towards home plate. Keith’s swear is lost to the wind.

Everything seems to slow down as he races forward, cuts off Lance, throws himself down on the sand. Feels the rush of victory pump in his veins as time shudders back to normal pace and the moment breaks.

Keith lies on his stomach, panting and sweaty, as cheers and whoops rise up around him. He swears again, happily, grins and rolls onto his back, chest heaving as he stares up at the sky. His arms and shirt are tainted red by the dust and he’s pretty sure there’s a streak of sand on his chin but adrenaline makes it difficult to care.

He looks up as Lance approaches to loom over his head, baseball in hand and a smile splitting his face. It isn’t one of his usual flirtatious, cocky smiles but something more genuine, a smile that makes the corners of his eyes crease and puts his teeth on full display.

“Good game,” Lance breathes out, the flush of exertion staining his cheeks. “Too bad I didn’t get to see any of those dance moves I asked for.”

“I’m going to ignore that last part,” Keith says dryly but he’s smiling. “But thanks.”

The teams are already beginning to disperse, people clapping each other on the back and scampering away, collecting up abandoned equipment as they spill out of the gates, mindless chatter already fading into the distance. There would be time for celebration later, after everyone had officially finished working for the day.

Keith and Lance stare at each other for a moment, one up and one down, somewhat giddy on the adrenaline high, before Lance reaches down a hand and Keith automatically grabs it, pulling himself up. Their toes touch and the momentum of the pull causes their chests to bump together briefly. He can feel their shirts, sticky with sweat, between them. He doesn’t completely hate it.

Lance grins down at Keith. This close, the few inches difference in their heights is blatantly obvious, especially when Keith’s eyes are levelled with Lance’s Cupid’s bow. Keith swallows. He’s still holding Lance’s hand.

_Don’t look at his mouth don’t look at his mouth don’t look at his–_

Keith’s gaze flickers down to Lance’s lips.

_God fucking dammit._

Keith coughs awkwardly and shakes off Lance’s hand like he’s been burned, reeling backwards in an attempt to sever the too-close proximity between them.

Lance makes a noise of protest in the back of his throat and moves forward, mirroring Keith. Keith’s eyes widen ever so slightly and he retreats a little further; Lance follows. There’s something heavy in his gaze that drags Keith inwards like an anchor in a storm.

Keith clears his throat again as blood begins to trickle across his cheekbones. “Geez, do you not know what _boundaries_ a-” The end of his question disappears in a rush of air as Lance springs forward and wraps both arms around Keith like a sweaty, lanky, six-foot-tall boa constrictor. The air rushes out of his chest as Lance squeezes and Keith struggles to maintain his balance as the force sends them both stumbling a little, kicking up dust.

“ _Keeeeithhhhhhh_ ,” Lance whines. “I thought we were having a bonding moment, why are you trying to get away from me?”

Keith feels a flare of panic shoot along his spine and he wriggles, but his arms are trapped by his sides, face pressed into the side of Lance’s neck. Any heat that was in his face before has amplified to the extreme and he thinks that if he sets himself on fire right now it wouldn’t hold a candle to the warmth running under his skin.

He can feel all the planes of Lances body aligned with his; the ragged rise and fall of his chest, the strain of his muscles as he clings to Keith, hot breath on the back of his neck.

“What are you doing.” He tries (read: fails) to sound annoyed. His tone falls somewhere between surprised and mildly turned on.

“I’m cradling you in my arms!”

“Ugh, gross, you’re all sweaty,” Keith mumbles into Lance’s neck, still struggling; Lance is surprisingly strong, vice-grip on Keith not budging.

“It’s the smell of a man, Keith!” Lance protests, voice vibrating in his throat. Keith sighs and stills, hoping Lance will fall for his trap.

And he does. The idiot.

As soon as the arms around him loosen, Keith squirms out of the embrace, ducking out from under Lance’s arms and turning to take a few cautious steps away.

“¡No puedo creerlo!” Keith looks back at Lance as he bites out a sentence in frustrated Spanish.

“Are you talkin’ to me?” Keith drawls, raising an eyebrow as Lance pouts at him. Lance groans and throws his hands up in the air in a defeated gesture.

“Dice que no puede bailar pero he visto cuando juega el baloncesto. Es tan _elegante_. Podría bailar tan fácilmente…” Lance trails off, seemingly forgetting that Keith is standing right in front of him. 

“…mierda…eso es caliente…” Lance is mumbling heatedly to himself as he runs a hand through his hair and makes it spike up even more, looking into the distance with a pained expression on his face. Keith rolls his eyes.

“Stop trying to insult me in a language I don’t know. I took French for six years, not Spanish.”

“Ay, dios mío,” grumbles Lance. “Eres tan lindo cuando no me entiendes.”

“My god, English, Lance!”

Lance looks at Keith again, plastering a winning smile on his face, no evidence left of his prior minor dilemma.

“Dance with me, Keith.” Keith wishes Lance would stop wiggling his eyebrows so much. He looks dumb and Keith kind of wants to surge forward and kiss him just for that.

Instead he takes another wary step back, crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t dance.”

He blows a clump of sticky hair out of his eyes in exasperation.

“I know you _can_ ,” Lance sings, crowding forward. “If I could do this-” he gestures at the rapidly emptying baseball pitch, “-then you can do that.”

“Not a chance.”

Keith is caught off guard when Lance moves forward suddenly, wraps one hand around his waist and entangles their fingers with the other. He shoots Lance a flat look, only to receive a smug smile in return.

“Oh my god,” Keith grumbles under his breath as Lance starts to sing an obnoxious tune, pulling Keith along with him as he begins to waltz across the dusty playing field. Keith can do nothing but be towed along and laugh under his breath when Lance’s voice cracks on a particularly high note.

“You sure you’re not just doing this for my body, McClain?” Keith jokes. It’s only been a few minutes since Lance started pulling him around the pitch. It feels like he’s grown up in this embrace.

He expect a sassy retort, for Lance to provide the next stepping stone in their meaningless conversation but  instead Lance hums in thought, oddly serious. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Keith’s response dies in his throat.

A hand is placed on his back, fingers spread wide. Lance’s pinky is barely brushing the waistband of Keith’s shorts and Keith thinks he might just spontaneously combust in this very moment. He decides that that would be a bit of a tragic way to go and reins it in.

Lance spins them in a circle, feet moving slowly, deliberately.

He should probably be thinking something mushy or romantic right now but really Keith can feel the outline of Lance’s dick against his leg and it’s a little hard to focus his attention elsewhere. He swallows hard.

Lance steps back and Keith almost whines at the loss of contact. But he doesn’t (that would be lame. And gay. And Keith Kogane is only one of those things).

Lifting their joined hands above their heads, Lance nudges Keith’s shin with his foot. “Twirl for me.”

Keith rolls his eyes but complies anyway, going deliberately slowly and making sure Lance gets a good look at the unimpressed look on his face. Lance’s bright laugh rings in his ears and unexpected, unbridled happiness bubbles deep in Keith’s chest. They come to face each other again and Keith gives a mock bow. Lance dips his head in return, smile wide and teasing. “Bravo, Keith.”

He lets ago and they step apart, both slightly dazed. Keith’s gaze automatically drops and he scuffs the ground with the toe of his sneaker, ears burning. Almost everyone has left now, trickling back towards the country club to shower and finish their duties for the day. The quiet settles over the two of them like a wave, ebbing and flowing with the retreating crowds.

“Hey, Keith?” Lance’s hand finds Keith’s wrist again in the dimming light and Keith’s eyes follow the dips and curves of his arm, the hard muscle leading up to his shoulder, the soft line of his neck, the defined jawline.

He looks into Lance’s eyes. Open. Honest. Soft.

“You wanna go grab something to eat later? After our shifts are over?”

Lance is hopeful, eager. Expectancy shines in his eyes.

Keith glances down at his hand clamped down on his wrist. At the contrast in the colours of their skin. He looks up at Lance, the red streaked sunset reflecting on his face. Mouth twisted up into a soft smile, softer than he’s ever seen.

He breathes out quietly, a short exhale of air. “Yeah. Okay. But no more dancing.”

Lance snorts. “Well, I can’t promise that.”

“Lance!”

Keith knows right there, as the sun dips below the horizon and taints the world dusky red, Lance laughing beside him with his hand still around his wrist – this could be the start of something new.

**Author's Note:**

> lance: hey keith u wanna know how i swing?
> 
> keith: 
> 
>  
> 
> \---------
> 
> what the spanish in the fic means (i hope its accurate im not a native spanish speaker yikes): 
> 
> "¡no puedo creerlo!" = i cant believe it!
> 
> "Dice que no puede bailar pero he visto cuando juega el baloncesto. Es tan elegante. Podría bailar tan fácilmente ..mierda…eso es caliente…” = *sexually challenged lance voice* he says he cant dance but I’ve seen him playing basketball. he’s so elegant. he could dance so easily…shit…that’s hot…
> 
> "Ay, dios mío...Eres tan lindo cuando no me entiendes" = oh my god...youre so cute when you dont understand me


End file.
